


Disney's Achilles

by HeroicDisney



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Disney - All Media Types, Hercules (1997)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Anger Management, Canon Gay Relationship, Disney Movies, Disney Songs, Dramedy, Gay Male Character, Inspired by The Song of Achilles, M/M, Original Character(s), References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Tragedy/Comedy, Trojan War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29418615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeroicDisney/pseuds/HeroicDisney
Summary: Before Hercules, there was a prince whose rage was his own Achilles's heel. The Muses narrate a new Disney musical, complete with original songs, about the doomed love between Achilles, the strongest kid in town, and Patroclus, who'd rather heal than fight. When the terrible Trojan War tears their lives apart, Achilles wins the favor of Athena. But he soon finds himself tempted by brutal Ares, who is devising his own plans with Hades, God of the Underworld. To win the war, he'll have to think with his head, not his heart. A Disney dramedy about passion and reason; a prequel to Hercules.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus, Aphrodite/Ares, Hera/Zeus (Disney: Hercules)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 23





	Disney's Achilles

**Chapter I: Pretty Boy Paris**

Does mankind ever change? Is humanity doomed to fear and anger, to deeply hate all nations not their own, for all eternity? 

Pass through these hallowed halls of history and see the writing on the wall, the drawings on the vases. Do you see the mosaic mural of Ancient Greece, when the humans were meek, the monsters wild, and the gods jealous? 

Look to the artwork of painted tiles, a history lesson in ceramics: a golden apple in the center, in the hands of a beautiful prince, and the three goddesses who desired it crooning at his feet in worship of a mortal — the gods begging a mortal man for worship — never forget that to the Divine, worship is the Alpha and the Omega of their existence.

Look to his left and see the Greeks, the world’s first democracy, consumed by tidings of war. Look to his right and see the Trojans, the mightiest warriors of Asia Minor, ready for battle. Look above our prince and see the kidnapped princess, see how he worships at her feet: the most beautiful woman ever to walk the Earth — Helen of Troy.

The world is consumed by warfare, communities trapped in fear and isolation, terrified of The Other. See how neighbor turns against neighbor, their nation against the world. A betrayal of Xenia, hospitality, sacred to the gods. And when people forget Xenia, the gods anger.

If this sounds familiar, then ask yourself, does mankind ever truly change?

“Oh, honey, you are telling this all wrong.” A figure moves atop the mosaic.

“Why you gotta be so melodramatic? Where’s the sugar and spice?”

“And everything nice.” Hands on her hips. “And ooh, baby, was Helen nice.”

“Oh, child, you just sit back and let us take over here.” A wink.

“Ain’t no better storyteller than the Muses, goddesses of the arts and proclaimers of heroes.” Now the five women whipped around, terra-cotta skin and voluminous hair.

“And honey, there’s really nine of us, but ain’t nobody got time for that.”

“Y’know what they say. Three’s a crowd, five’s a band, nine is four too many.”

“Oh, but girls, this story...” The leading lady had dark hair piled high, a scarf tied around her forehead, and hips that had their own gravitational pull. This was Calliope, the muse of poetry. “This is a sad story. If we’re gonna tell this right, we need soul.”

“Take that down a key,” a muse said to the orchestra. “Ooh, yeah, right there.”

“Our story is forbidden love, heartache, and rage. Know what that means, girls?” Calliope raised her hands and the lights dimmed. “We’re singing the Blues.”

The spotlight centers their ancient stage; the slow rhythm begins.

_“Pretty Boy Paris — He had a choice — Speak up, prince, use your voice.”_

In the Ancient Greek mosaic, see the figure of Prince Paris of Troy come to life: a youthful prince with stunning brown skin, a proud nose, black locks of hair, and a naivete in his playful eyes. The prince of Asia Minor, not a warrior but a noble. 

_“Apple of Discord — That Eris had thrown — But how, oh how, could he have known?”_

Spurned by the gods of Mount Olympus was the raven-haired Eris, a wicked gleam in her eyes that demanded revenge, and what better revenge than chaos? Glorious chaos. So Eris devised a simple scheme: pluck a golden apple of the Hesperides.

 _“Poor Paris, poor Paris, poor Paris!”_ There was a simple question written on the golden apple — that it should belong to the fairest goddess — but the gods were vain creatures, and the question of beauty was a divisive one. _“How could he, oh, why would he... choose one of three?”_ The divinities appeared in the royal gardens; the choice was his.

 _“The goddess, the goddess, the goddess!”_ Three otherworldly women in his gardens: a warrior, a queen, and a lover. He was prince of the Earth, now judge of the Heavens, but the choice was impossible. _“Athena and Hera and... Aphrodite!”_

Paris had everything he thought he could ever want in the world, but he was a thing of beauty. No great mind, no great ruler, but he was vainglorious. And when the goddesses bribed him, he made his choice. _“Why, girl, why… why, girl, why… did he choose?”_ The apple was given. _“Gave the world… gave the world… the old noose.”_

Athena shone with blue light, a wisdom in her gray eyes that was unparalleled, for she was the goddess of strategy, craftsmanship, and all the wise arts. She had an owl on her shoulder, Ibid, who made anyone smarter when he sat on their head. Her offer to Paris was the craftiest: choose her as the fairest goddess and any battle he ever fought, he would win.

Hera was radiant in pink, golden hair flowing over her regal robes. She was beautiful and maternal, a proud queen and a loving mother at once, and if Paris would name her the fairest, she would give him the largest kingdom in history — the entire continent of Asia.

Aphrodite smiled demurely. She was pink-skinned and her hair was the color of the sun, shaped like a heart, and she had a body that would drive most men — and some women — mad with lust. She had a simple offer for Paris. She whispered it in his ear.

“Choose me, and the most beautiful woman in the world will be yours.”

In front of her rivals, Aphrodite took a bite of her apple.

_“Pretty Boy Paris — He liked his beauty — He was no brains and all booty!”_

With magic from the goddess of love, Queen Helen of a faraway kingdom was by his side in an instant, appearing in a whirl of golden light. Whether she was under a love spell or whether she was truly attracted to Prince Paris, the world will never know. Nobody asked her.

_“Beautiful Helen — Though she was taken — That never stops the bed shaking.”_

That faraway kingdom was Greek, and her husband was King Menelaus. Alas, that’s always the way: you lay your eyes upon a beautiful woman, and she’s never available.

 _“Poor Paris, poor Paris, poor Paris!”_ He had won a trophy over all men in the world. He couldn’t know that across the Aegean Sea, armies were rallying and boarding ships, setting sail from port. A declaration of war. _“How could he, oh, why would he... choose one of three?”_

 _“The goddess, the goddess, the goddess!”_ On Mount Olympus, the gods were arguing as always, some favoring the illicit love affair and some supporting marriage and justice. The goddesses were drawing lines in the sand. _“Athena and Hera and... Aphrodite!”_

 _“Why, girl, why… why, girl, why… did he choose?”_ Now the gods’ argument had become a full-fledged battle. The clouds rumbled, wind and lightning raged around the mountain, the seas churned and crops withered. _“Gave the world… gave the world… the old noose.”_

Someone had thrown a punch, someone had been scratched, and the Olympians were crying war. In his cloud throne, mighty Zeus tore his white hair and screamed, “Silence!” His bronze skin shone, purple robes fluttered, as he demanded quiet — but was ignored.

“This is an insult to marriage everywhere!” Hera screamed, throwing a glass on the floor. She turned to blue Athena, not her daughter but an ally in the moment; both had been spurned. “The Greeks have reason, and reason will always win,” Athena said coolly. They glared at a pink goddess — sneering Aphrodite on the other side of the fight, eating her apple.

Aphrodite locked eyes with a god on the other side of the chamber: a bearded red god, short but muscular, with a temper to match his strength. Ares was on the Greeks’ side — they had a better war record — but he exchanged a smile with the goddess. He wasn’t her husband, that was hardworking Hephaestus; this only increased their attraction.

_“Forbidden love… Passion and reason… War of love and war of treason.”_

The Muses shook their heads, the music swelled and faded, and their spotlight dimmed. They laid down on the stage, one leg in the air each, one arm draped over the edge. 

_“Pretty Boy Paris… Oh, your ship did sail… Passion and reason, one must fail.”_

The world of mortals was a playground of the gods, who lounged in their thrones while the farmers and artisans of the Greek mainland and islands toiled and troubled. Follow the patchwork of farmland and forest, mountains and beaches, across the land to a kingdom known as Phthia. There was a booming town, a marketplace, an amphitheater, and temples to the gods: one to Zeus the Skyfather and one to Hera, Lady of Heaven. The king and queen of all, they were protectors and prosecutors of humanity.

There were two more temples on opposite sides of town.

In one was a statue of gray-eyed Athena, Goddess of Wisdom, complete with gorgon shield, helmet and spear, and owl on her shoulder. But in the other was rageful Ares, God of War, in all his strength and brutality, where soldiers prayed before deployment.

Within the palace walls lived a prince, son of King Peleus, who was stronger and faster and lovelier and angrier than any other boy in Phthia. The prince watched storm clouds gather in the sky and knew the gods were displeased. Thunder rumbled; lightning flashed.

He shrugged and went inside before it rained, biting an apple.

* * *

**_Walt Disney Animation Studios presents:_ **

**ACHILLES**

* * *

The room was dusty with disuse, the columns not properly wiped down or the drapes cleaned by servants before the king and his advisors had marched in, laid out their maps and records, and gotten to work. Not used in years, now the king declared an emergency.

Beams of light from the afternoon sun illuminated the dust in the air. The atmosphere, perhaps, made the older men a bit doozy. One elder had a bubble of snot dripping from their nose; another’s eyes blinked open and shut. Finally, a yawn.

“And if we move our fleet to Cyprus first, we can reconvene with Menelaus and — ” The speaker whipped around at the yawn. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. Did we miss our afternoon nap?”

“ — a horse! We build a giant wooden horse and — ” One advisor, the king of neighboring Ithaca, shot awake. He’d been head-back, reclining in his chair. The rest of the council looked at him with gaping mouths. “And we… err… build a wooden horse and…”

“Keep workshopping that idea, Odysseus,” the head speaker said, rolling his eyes and muttering, “A wooden horse? What daydreams.” Then he slammed his hands on the table, mouth curling into a snarl. “This is war, gentlemen!”

“Pardon me, Peleus,” another advisor mumbled, scratching his chin. “It’s not that we aren’t interested. But really… isn’t war a bit of an exaggeration?”

“We’ve only got to sail our ships in, march our troops to their gates, and the pompous prince will hand the queen over.” An old man snickered. “Probably wet himself, too.”

“We have all the armies of Greece,” an advisor said. “United at last.”

“What chance do these… these… Asia Minors? Minor Asians? What chance do they stand, Peleus, really? This isn’t a war. This is a one-time campaign.”

The king at the head of the table snarled at them. He was old, but not as old as some of them, and they thought themselves wiser and worldlier than him. Some were his court advisors, but some were neighboring kings, the heads of nearby city-states, and King Peleus of Phthia had no authority over them. And besides, they were guests under his roof. The law of Xenia demanded that guests be treated with proper respect. The gods insisted. 

So the king shook his head, groaned quietly, and tossed his anger out the window. “Friends, I know we are a force to be reckoned with,” he said, holding up a paper with Ancient Greek numerals tallied off, a counting list. “But look at the numbers! Our intelligence suggests that the Trojans have the manpower to hold us off a week, a month — ”

“Peleus, come now. They are barbarians.” The eldest chuckled. “We are Greek.”

“Pray to Ares and all will be well. Victory will be swift.” 

“Ares?” Across the table, Odysseus crossed his arms and leaned back. “You are mistaken. Pray to Athena and all will be well. We need strategy, you old codgers, not force.”

“A goddess?” The king of Sparta heaved a great snort. “When we have a god?”

“Now, hold on.” The king of Athens pointed a finger. “What’s wrong with our goddess?”

“Nothing’s wrong. She’s fine if you want to weave a tapestry. But Ares is the one — ”

The Athenian slammed his hands on the table. “You bloody fool, you think just cause you have the great big military that you can tell everyone what do — ”

“I do think so!” The Spartan snorted like a bull. “I think you lot need our lot.”

“That’s funny,” his rival jeered, “because I didn’t think you thought at all.”

The monarchs of Athens and Sparta were now in a shouting match, voices raising and spit flying from their mouths. King Peleus shouted, “Silence!” but no one listened. 

“Do you want to start another Peloponnesian War?” Odysseus snarked.

Papers were flying, quills thrown about like darts, ink spilled all over the table, and the council of advisors were now taking sides between Athens and Sparta, Athena and Ares, the Goddess of Strategic Warfare and the God of Brutal Bloodshed. It was safe to say the war council had come to an end. “Enough, you fools! Enough!”

The kings of Athens and Sparta had to be pulled away from each other before peace returned to the chamber. Peleus was purple in the face. “What kind of example are we setting for our children, eh? How are they to lead if we can’t show them the way?”

The advisors muttered amongst themselves; guilt was always sure to kill the mood. King Peleus gathered up his scattered papers in a neat stack. “My very own son and heir is watching and learning, gentlemen, watching and learning, and this is no way — ”

The king handed the stack of papers to the boy next to him. The problem was, there was no boy there to receive them. He stared blankly at the empty chair. “Achilles?”

He wondered how long it had been empty. “ _Achilles!_ ”

* * *

The thunderclouds the day before had given way to a light rain, penetrated by sunbeams through the gray clouds, making for a wet and lazy afternoon. The world outside looked so inviting. Achilles wasn’t about to spend it listening to his father and his advisors drone on and on about strategy and warfare and supplies and artillery… he was getting sleepy just thinking about it. Achilles had a very different plan for his afternoon.

“Look at that one!” he cheered as his stone splashed in the lake. It was satisfying to see the disruption in the water, the boom and slap of the water, as his rock hit the surface. “I can do even better.” He picked up a bigger rock and hurled it.

The splash fell back on them, drenching the two boys. “Ha! Check me out!”

“Well done,” his companion smiled. “You’ve got me all wet.”

The morning’s rain had faded and the day was left bright and refreshed. The lake had been refilled, making it perfect to throw stones. The boys sat on a gravelly shore, and a washed-up log made the perfect bench. One was jumping up and down on the gravel, pointing to the ripples and grinning at his chaos. The other was reclined on the log, lost in thought.

“You throw one, Pat,” the prince said. “Find the biggest one. Make a splash.”

“I don’t want to splash,” the scrawny boy laughed. He looked through the rocks at his feet and picked one that was perfectly smooth. “This is a skipper. Here, see.”

Patroclus knelt down, reached back his arm, and skipped his stone across the water’s surface. One, two, three hops it made before sinking into the lake.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” he beamed. “Here’s another smooth one. You try.”

The prince threw the stone in the air, caught it, threw it again, caught it, and leaned back and threw with all his strength. “Ha ha! That one went the farthest!”

“You’re not skipping it,” Patroclus said. “You have to be gentle.”

The skinny boy stood up and grabbed Achilles hand. The prince had the loveliest tan skin that he’d ever seen, the color of amber syrup, but his hair was lighter. This gave him a rough delicacy, beauty beneath a bronze exterior. Achilles shivered when Patroclus touched his skin. He shut his nut-brown eyes so his soul wouldn’t betray him.

“Bend your hand back. Hold it like a quill.” Patroclus put another smooth stone in the prince’s fingers. He pulled his arm back, set his posture right. “Flick when you release.”

Patroclus’s hands lingered on his bulging biceps, his broad shoulders and toned back muscles. He didn’t know why the fool of a prince insisted on going everywhere shirtless. He supposed that when boys had muscles, they liked to show them off.

“Lean back…” He pulled Achilles’s arm back. “...and throw. Gently.”

The stone flew free, skipping once before disappearing to the watery depths.

“You did it!” Patroclus clapped his hands. They were a hair’s length apart.

Achilles threw his arms behind his neck and drew Patroclus into a kiss.

Their lips stayed together more briefly than the stone had skipped. When they pulled away, Achilles ran his tongue over his lips to taste their intimacy. “You had olives for breakfast, didn’t you?” He grinned and stared at his dearest friend. It was a fool’s grin.

“Um, yeah.” Patroclus tripped over his words. “Olives and, uh, hummus.”

“Hummus.” Achilles traced a finger around the boy’s mouth.

They returned to the log, sitting a foot apart. Achilles, made of gold and bronze, sat legs apart with a small rise in his tunic. His arms were spread wide. Beside him, Patroclus kept his legs together and his arms wrapped around his chest, shaking his head.

“Wow,” he giggled, “Oh, wow.” He looked at Achilles. “We’ve never, uh…”

“I’m tired of waiting. We’re old enough. Don’t you feel the same?”

“Yes,” he said instantly. “Yes, I… I do. I just… I never thought…”

The water lapped at the shore; as the afternoon drew closer to evening, the tide was slowly coming in. They had many hours to go before the beach was flooded. No need to rush.

“I love you, Achy,” Pat said at last. “I want to say it out loud.”

Now it was Achilles’s turn to shuffle. “Why do you call me Achy?”

“You work out so much. You always say your muscles...” Pat mumbled, brushing a strand of dark hair behind his head. He was thinner than the prince by a mile, narrow where his friend was broad, smooth where his friend was rugged. “Your muscles always ache.”

“That’s dumb.” Achilles sat a little further away from him.

The boys both blushed, bowed their heads, then exchanged a secret smile. The prince reached out and took his friend’s hand, their fingers intertwining. They sat on the log for several minutes more, watching the water coming closer and closer to shore. The sunlight sparkled on the lake’s surface. There was a slight breeze, and they both had goosebumps.

On a hilltop, far away from the boys, there stood a temple to the gods. The marble pillars were carved with care, the tiles laid immaculately. The top of the temple displayed a carving of five ladies in flowing gowns, drama masks and musical instruments in their hands.

The Muses turned their heads forward in unison. “And so our story begins. War is brewing across the sea, but these fellas got other things on the brain.”

“Oh, I don’t think they’re thinking with their brains.” 

“Hush, girl.” Calliope raised her arms and swiveled her hips. “Pat and Achy, my sweet boys… Little do they know, oh, little do they know.”

“Well, who can blame them? War’s never real till it’s on your doorstep.”

“Ain’t that the Gospel truth.” The Muses drew their hands over their eyes. They leaned back, struck a pose, and sang for the rumbling heavens.

 _“Oh sing, oh sing, oh sing the praise of that Achilles and his rage.”_ Their voices were low, soulful. _“Oh sing, oh sing, oh sing O' Muse, of that Achilles and the Blues.”_ It was in the hands of the Fates now.

* * *

**“Pretty Boy Paris” by HeroicDisney**

I

Pretty Boy Paris — He had a choice — 

Speak up, prince, use your voice.

Apple of Discord — That Eris had thrown — 

But how, oh how, could he have known?

I

Poor Paris, poor Paris, poor Paris!

How could he, oh, why would he… choose one of three?

The goddess, the goddess, the goddess!

Athena and Hera and... Aphrodite!

Why, girl, why… why, girl, why… did he choose?

Gave the world... gave the world… the old noose.

I

Pretty Boy Paris — He liked his beauty — 

He was no brains and all booty!

Beautiful Helen — Though she was taken — 

That never stopped the bed shaking.

I

Poor Paris, poor Paris, poor Paris!

How could he, oh, why would he… choose one of three?

The goddess, the goddess, the goddess!

Athena and Hera and... Aphrodite!

Why, girl, why… why, girl, why… did he choose?

Gave the world... gave the world… the old noose.

I

Forbidden love… Passion and reason…

War of love and war of treason.

Pretty Boy Paris… Oh, your ship did sail…

Passion and reason, one must fail.


End file.
